Rosaline
LIKE to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,Of selfsame colour is her hairWhether unfolded, or in twines:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,Resembling heaven by every wink;The gods do fear whenas they glow,And I do tremble when I think—Heigh ho, would she were mine!Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora’s face,Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Phœbus’ smiling looks doth grace;Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her lips are like two budded rosesWhom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within which bounds she balm enclosesApt to entice a deity:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her neck is like a stately towerWhere Love himself imprisoned lies,To watch for glances every hourFrom her divine and sacred eyes:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her paps are centres of delight,Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,Where Nature moulds the dew of lightTo feed perfection with the same:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blueHer body every way is fed,Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Nature herself her shape admires;The gods are wounded in her sight;And Love forsakes his heavenly firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoanThe absence of fair Rosaline,Since for a fair there’s fairer none,Nor for her virtues so divine:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!